


Javert's Lesson

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Madeleine Era, Non-Consensual Spanking, Punishment, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madeleine breaks into Javert's room to leave him a coin. Unfortunately, the Inspector returns home early...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Javert's Lesson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotAnymore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAnymore/gifts).



> Thank you so much vaincs for betaing this, and fightingthecage for letting me use this premise!

Valjean had not heard the door open or the steps that might have given away the intruder. He had in fact been so concentrated on his task, stretched across the desk to put down once more the hat after placing a gleaming louis d'or beneath it, that the large hand coming down to grip his collar was such a shock that for a moment, he froze, an instinctive fear keeping him from shouting or twisting free.

“What have we here?” the man above him snarled. 

Fear made Valjean cringe away, grateful now that it was dark and that he was hidden by the shadows, for this was the room of Javert, Inspector and ever suspicious guard dog. Even as Madeleine, Valjean would be hard-pressed to give Javert an explanation for his presence that would satisfy. 

And what answer was there? By accident, he had overheard Javert sending away the man who brought him a weekly bundle of wood. While a cold room could be borne – Valjean knew that only too well – there was also the memory of a kind touch and a plate of bread and cheese and mutton, and these things had given Valjean pause. He had been returning from a family that had suffered much from illness and the recent cold spell when his eyes had fallen onto the house where he knew the inspector lodged. Valjean could not say why he had stolen inside the inspector's room, save that autumn was fading fast, that soon there might be snow, and that the nineteen long years he shivered on planks were no reason at all to make another suffer when it was in his power to ease such suffering.

“Thief!” 

Javert sounded drunk with triumph, the word sibilant, drawn out with a terrible satisfaction. The hand at Valjean's neck tightened even as Javert pressed him down by it. “In my own room! You dare –”

The air went out of Valjean with a groan when he was forced down onto the desk, his face still safely turned away from Javert in the darkness. Then the cudgel was out and pressed hard against his throat to hold him pinned.

Valjean swallowed as fear gripped his limbs. What was he to do? If he spoke up, Javert would let him go – but would he truly? Would Valjean not immediately be unmasked? Would not in this already suspicious man's mind the mask of mayor immediately fall away to reveal what was hiding beneath: the wretch, the convict?

“To make a mockery of me; to break into my room...” Javert was muttering, and Valjean stared in terror at the hat there on the shelf to his left, his fingers flexing instinctively. 

He was stronger than Javert. He could throw him off. If he moved quickly, if he took care to keep his face averted, Javert might never know –

There was the sound of a belt being opened and drawn free. Shock made Valjean's thoughts scatter and fall away. For a long moment, there was nothing but the terrified, fast breathing that had to give his fear away, and the thrum of anticipation in the room. Before, he had heard the intoxication of triumph in Javert's voice; now he felt it, heavy and unsaid between them. He thought that if Javert tried to bind his hands with his belt he would have to speak out – Javert would never forgive himself if he dragged the mayor out into the street with his hands bound like a criminal.

Instead, Javert drew in a deep, heavy breath. Suddenly his hands were on Valjean's trousers, and they were yanked down brutally fast, the seams protesting the rough treatment. The air went out of Valjean with shock.

“Oh, I'll teach you your lesson. To imagine such a thing – to seek to rob my own room!”

The cudgel was back against his neck, the weight of the wood heavy and familiar. Then a hand pulled up his shirt, and Valjean's breath stuck in his throat when he felt the cold air against his skin, knowing himself bared to Javert's gaze.

“Filthy thief,” Javert ground out. Valjean, bent over the desk, his hands helplessly grasping at the wood, had no further warning before the belt came down without mercy, carving a line of fire across his buttocks.

His body arched. For a moment, shock made it impossible to think - he had expected the shackles, or even the brutal pain of the cudgel that he had come to know so well in Toulon. Had he not always feared that Javert would return him to that place? 

A soft gasp was torn from his throat, and then he clenched his teeth together, terrified that even in that soft sound he had given himself away, that somehow, Javert would know it was him –

Again the belt came down. This time he did not cry out, although his entire body tensed at the way Javert's belt delivered its punishment, precise and pitiless.

Another strike, and now he had to blink against the tears that had sprung up in his eyes.

Did Javert truly not know it was him? Had Javert not suspected from the beginning? 

Valjean's fingers grasped at the desk, his neck bent in obedience beneath the cudgel that held him awkwardly sprawled across the desk, his buttocks pushed out towards Javert, who used the belt with such self-righteous fury that all too soon, Valjean felt tears of pain drip down his face, shamed by this display almost as much as by the way Javert's own belt was used to chastise him.

At last the torment ceased. His backside was burning. Javert was breathing heavily, and Valjean's stomach twisted with shame at the way he was still stretched out for Javert. Then –

He drew in a shocked breath when Javert grabbed his wrists and used the belt to tie them behind his back. Valjean dared not protest. His buttocks ached relentlessly, and as much as he wanted the torment to be over, he could bear the thought of Javert knowing that he had done this to _him_ even less. Would that not be a hundred times more shameful? To be forced to walk past Javert in the street, to see him lift his hat and say “M. le Maire” in that voice that used respect to mask the deep, dark suspicion beneath, only to hear instead in the future that mocking triumph and that memory of how Madeleine had lain across his desk and wept as he was chastised like a child...

A hand was laid upon his buttock. Valjean choked back a sound. The touch was not gentle; a finger traced a burning line along a weal, almost as if Javert needed to satisfy himself that the belt had indeed properly chastened him, and Valjean trembled and thought of the marks once left on his back. He tasted bile and shame in his mouth – and then something in his stomach began to twist and tense as Javert's hand dropped a little lower.

Suddenly the touch was gone. Valjean breathed more freely – only for the hand to come down without warning on his already bruised skin, drawing a gasp from his throat even as a wave of pain shuddered through him at the impact. 

Javert's hands were large, his arms were strong, and the belt was tightened firmly around Valjean's wrists. He wanted to struggle and break free, but the leather was sturdy, and for a moment there was nothing but the pain and the panic of being trapped. Then Javert's hand fell again. The stinging ache of it vibrated through him. This time he could hear the sound Javert made: a heavy groan, little more than a hoarse inhalation, but it was filled with terrible, vengeful joy. Valjean forced himself to relax in his bonds, gasping against the table instead in his misery.

He _could_ break free – but that would reveal him. What choice was there but to remain in this position and accept the chastisement? More tears escaped his eyes when Javert's hand came down onto his buttocks again, merciless and swift, and Valjean drew in a breath rough with tears. He had known worse in Toulon – so much worse – but now, as he was bent over Javert's desk, exposed to Javert's eyes and at the mercy of those cruel hands, he could not stop the sobs that rose in his chest, or the shame that burned through him.

In Toulon, he had been no one, a faceless body to be whipped by a man who never even knew or cared about his name or his cries.

This was different. It was nearly unbearable to think of Javert looking at his reddened skin or of what a sight he had to be with his trousers around his knees and his shirt tugged up to reveal his backside. 

Once more Javert's hand came down. Valjean bit his lip to hold back his cry at the way the red weals left by the belt now smarted as Javert's hand sought to drive home the lesson with redoubled insistence.

“The shamelessness of it! Do you take me for a fool? To rob the inspector in his own home! For the crime, you'll be in chains soon enough, but for the insult, for the insult, I'll make sure you learn your lesson. Do you still think me a fool now?”

Javert's hand struck again. A cry of misery escaped Valjean when this time, the hand fell down onto the sensitive skin of his thigh.

“Do you? Do you still think 'that blackguard Javert' now?”

Valjean groaned, squirming on the desk now when the merciless assault continued, driving more tears from him while his hands twisted impotently against the tight leather of the belt.

Again Javert's hand dealt him a blow. The heat of it flooded through Valjean, shame still heavy in his stomach. He could not hold back the soft sobs that spilled free of his throat. His tears dripped onto Javert's desk, and he, who had not wept since that night he had spent on his knees in Digne, now remembered that long night once more, and the kindness of the Bishop whose hands had touched with such gentleness.

There was no gentleness in Javert's touch. But all the same, the longer it went on, the more the misery in Valjean grew, as though Javert's harsh hands had forcefully stripped away Madeleine's layers of office, of false name, of respectability and money. And now, revealed beneath Javert's hand, lay the wretch Jean Valjean, quivering once more as he thought of the manifold sins that could not be forgiven: the way he had repaid the Bishop's kindness, the coin he had stolen from a child. 

All of that washed over him once more with the flood of the tears that Javert had loosed in his chest. As he wept bitterly on the desk, he almost came to yearn for the next blow, his smarting, reddened buttocks the only reparation he could offer for his sins. It did not matter that Javert did not know who he was: in that moment, Valjean thought the punishment just, quivering with every hard stroke of the open hand against skin that had not known touch since childhood.

He was still weeping when it ended. His backside burned; Javert had punished him well. A part of him was still aware of the danger: any moment now, Javert might pull his head back to look at his face. Yet at the same time, the tears seemed to have washed all strength out of him and all he could do was to rest there on the desk, his face wet, his body limp in surrender to the hand of his tormentor. Almost, it seemed desirable to have Javert know, and to lay down the burden of this life and this name that was not his own.

In the silence, he slowly became aware of the sound of Javert's breathing. It was heavy, as though Javert had exhausted himself as well. Certainly now was the time Javert would force him up, Valjean thought miserably, and then what would he say, what could he say to Javert...

For a long moment, Javert did not move. Then, Valjean could feel the cudgel again. It came to rest against the inside of his thigh, and Valjean bit back another sob, feeling the pressure increase until he reluctantly allowed his thighs to spread. His heart was racing in his chest.

Then, there was a touch. 

Javert's finger traced a line of heat up the inside of his thigh, where the belt had lustfully bitten into soft skin, so close to the private places between his legs that a rush of hot shame flooded Valjean. 

Javert's finger traced the welt. Then the pressure increased, and Valjean could feel his nail dig in. The line of fire was retraced, pain seared anew into his tender flesh until he was gasping and quivering, Javert's hand so close to where he had never been touched that the shame was nearly unbearable, that at the thought of the mortifying, secret parts of him revealed to Javert's eyes, he wanted to plead at last, no matter if it would give himself away –

Javert stopped. The sound of his breathing was very loud in the silent room. A line of fire still burned where he had scratched with such precise cruelty along the bite of his belt. Valjean could not move, his heart beating fearfully at knowing himself exposed, and Javert did not move, did not speak, although he was breathing very fast.

Then there were hands at Valjean's wrists, shaking as they loosened the belt.

“Be gone. Be gone, I say! Don't let me catch you again. Next time, it is irons and the lash for you,” Javert said, and Valjean almost did not recognize his voice, so hoarse and twisted with fury did it sound. 

Was it fury?

Valjean's hands scrambled to pull up his trousers, his head still averted to keep in the shadow. Was Javert truly letting him go? Why would Javert do such a thing?

He waited for the shackles, or for the cudgel to fall – but Javert did not move. Javert was truly releasing him – Javert, who had not once failed in his adherence to duty and the law.  
Valjean’s heart was racing. He did not allow himself to think on what he had heard in Javert's voice. It could not have been anything but fury.

A rough sob escaped as the fabric of his trousers rasped over the burning skin of his buttocks. He fled as quickly as he could, new pain shooting through him with every step he took. Javert did not call him back. Javert did not follow.

It had been fury, Valjean told himself, even when he had made it back to his rooms in agony. It must have been fury.

The line Javert had scratched up his thigh still burned relentlessly.


End file.
